The Grind

           The slick steel groove in the railroad crossing snags Jim’s front wheel like a predator snagging its prey—instantaneously and without warning. The outcome of the ill-fated incident is the same as always—the bicycle stops abruptly and the rider hits the pavement hard. Watching it happen in front of me, I immediately slam on my brakes and make sure that my friend is not injured. But even before that, my body makes an involuntary movement. I cringe. I cringe because I know the feeling. I cringe because I’ve been there before.

            There’s not much that I haven’t done on a bicycle. The time I was taken down by a set of railroad tracks, I was actually in a much worse situation than Jim. My friend Blaine was following directly behind me, right on my wheel, so when I went down, he went over, leaving a pile of bikes and bodies in the middle of a major thoroughfare. We were lucky that the cars behind us slammed on their brakes. Another time I was bombing down a hill, pedaling as fast as I could around a turn, when my left pedal clipped the asphalt, throwing me clear over my handlebars, ripping open my upper lip, knocking out my two front teeth and leaving me with hefty medical bills. Another time I took so much skin off my left arm that I could barely bend at the elbow for over a week. Another time I rode down a mountain in such extreme cold that my hands went completely numb and refused to work correctly for the next several months. I thought for sure that I had permanent nerve damage. And then there are all the little things, like the chipped kneecap and the bruised tailbone and the countless bumps, bruises, scrapes, and scabs. And I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I know so many people who’ve had it so much worse. When it comes down to it, if you’re going to ride a lot of bikes, there’s eventually going to be some pain. No doubt about it. I know, because I’ve ridden a lot of bikes. At one point, you could have almost called me obsessed.

            I’ve always ridden bicycles, since I can remember, but didn’t get seriously into the two-wheeled machines until I moved out west in 2008. And like I oftentimes do, I went absolutely gung-ho. I started with cyclocross and that quickly evolved into cross-country and short track mountain biking. On the road, I’ve done criterions and circuits. I’ve raced fixed-gear and single speed. I’ve done 24-hour solo road and mountain bike races. I’ve ridden tall bikes and swing bikes. I’ve bombed little kids bikes down mountains. I’ve battled homemade chariots with urban gladiators. I’ve ridden nude with 10,000 other naked cyclists. I’ve biked across the United States twice. And then, in 2014, I really got into it. I bought some top of the line equipment. I hired a coach. I quit my job and started training full time. I competed in 52 races—one for each week of the year. And by the time I won the award for the Best All Around Single Speed Rider in Oregon, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to ride a bike again, let alone race one. As it turned out, sometimes there really can be too much of a good thing.

            I decided to take some time off, limiting my races to a select few, but even those I didn’t really enjoy. And then I injured my back and could barely ride for about six months, but I still didn’t miss it. But then I rehabbed my back and made it strong again and decided to go for my first long ride in a long time. And now I watch as Jim’s front wheel abruptly stops. I watch as his body hits the pavement like a sack of concrete.

            We are riding in the Salem Gravel Grinder, a yearly event that takes place each February. Of all the cycling activities I’ve done throughout my life, this is—somehow—my first gravel grinder. The weather is crap, causing rain to sting my eyes, and the wheel in front of me to spray grit into my mouth. The gravel causes my bike to slog, making each mile feel twice as long, each foot of elevation more like ten. I’m cold, wet, and hungry. Yet I can’t remember being much happier on a bike. Because it’s not a race. It’s just a ride. Like they all used to be. I’m reminded of before 2008, when I rode bikes for the simple enjoyment of it. There were no races or competitions or bragging rights. It was just me and my two wheels, exploring the outskirts of Buffalo, NY, and before that, commuting to class in Potsdam, and before that, circling the block in my hometown of Elma, and before that, circumnavigating Redhouse Lake, and before that, learning to balance in my parent’s dirt driveway.

            As Jim pulls himself off the pavement and hops back on his bike, he’s in good spirits, and says something that immediately strikes a nerve with me. “I’m glad I crashed,” he says. “It reminds me that I’m human. It reminds me that I’m alive.” And I can’t agree more. For the first time in a long time, I’m glad to be back on the bike. Even though I’m cold and wet and hungry. The rain, it stings my eyes. The gravel, it sprays into my mouth. And never has it tasted so good.